


the hills

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batdad, Ficlets, Gen, M/M, To Be Continued, batfamily, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:25:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: A collection of Superbat/Batfam/etc prompts from Tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: For your requests: Bruce and Hal are both in the medbay for minor-ish injuries, bitching ensues.

“Concussion protocol means _sitting down_ ,” Black Canary said, half-shoving Hal back toward his cot. “And waiting until someone agrees you’re not going to have an aneurysm. Capiche?”

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Hal whined, refusing to sit. “I barely hit my head. There’s no way I have a concussion. The ring took most of the damage, anyway.”

Black Canary rolled her eyes, heading for the door. “Take it up with the Founders. Protocol is protocol.”

The medbay doors slid open. Batman nodded at Black Canary, stepping around her. Hal felt his jaw drop.

“You are n _ot leaving me with him_ \--”

Black Canary disappeared into the hallway, sending him a wink over her shoulder. The doors closed with a hiss, sealing his fate.

Batman hesitated near one of the empty beds, before sitting. There was a smear of blood across his mouth, vivid against the pale skin of his jaw.

“Don’t tell me,” Hal said, holding up a finger. “You stubbed your toe.”

Even with the cowl, it was easy to tell when Batman was rolling his eyes. His hands were folded carefully in his lap. The smear of blood was the only injury Hal could see.

“Ingrown toenail, then,” Hal continued, glancing at the man’s boots. “Those are actually really painful when they’re infected. And then you have to soak them in saltwater every day and put cotton under the--”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“So it’s not a dental abscess.” Hal smirked. “Ingrown hair, maybe?”

Batman let out something that was almost a sigh, shifting on the cot. “Well, you’re clearly not brain damaged.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No, it’s just how you normally act.” Batman tapped at his comm. “When you start sounding rational-- _then_ I’ll tell Clark to be worried.”

“Aw, big bad boyfriend isn’t letting you out of the medbay, either?”

It clearly hit a nerve. Batman bristled, abandoning his comm. “Founders have to follow the same rules.”

“ _Right_ ,” Hal said, crossing his legs. “Mr. ‘every rule I make has exceptions’ doesn’t have to sit in the medbay with the plebs. Like I buy that.”

Batman ignored him. He pulled off the cowl, revealing mussed dark hair and a face that couldn’t have been more mask-like.

“Eerie,” Hal said out loud.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Batman asked, eyes closing. He leaned back against the pillow. “I can’t hear anything over this _intense_ headache.” He paused, eyes drifting open. “Wait. That’s just you.”

Hal bit his tongue, wishing he could show a tape of this encounter to anyone who didn’t believe Batman was the biggest drama queen of all. “So when is Blue Beaux coming to bust bae out?”

“I’m not sleeping with Clark, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Hal raised an eyebrow. “So I have a chance, then?”

Batman let out another sigh. “Go for it. Not sure he has a thing for assholes, though.”

“You sound a little bitter,” Hal said, grinning. “You sure there wasn’t something there?”

“How about I give you,” Batman considered, counting on his fingers. “Five million dollars, and you never speak out loud again.”

“My silence is worth at _least_ ten million, douchebag--”

Hal cut off as Superman barrelled through the medbay doors, barely waiting for them to open all the way. He headed straight for Batman’s cot, ignoring Hal.

“Are you _insane_?” Clark asked, practically vibrating as he hovered over the vigilante. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“It’s a couple broken bones,” Batman muttered, close to a growl. “Not even full breaks. Which you would know if you _looked_. And would you _keep your voice down_.”

Superman glanced at Hal, as if finally registering his presence.

“Sorry,” Hal said, in the intervening silence. “Am I interrupting something?”

Batman stood, grabbing his cowl from the cot. Clark hovered behind him, as if waiting to catch him.

Now that Hal was looking, the vigilante was carefully guarding his left arm, not straightening the limb as he moved toward the door.

“No. We’re leaving.”

Superman stepped in front of the door, crossing his arms. Batman levelled a vicious glare his way, as if daring the Kryptonian to try something.

Hal felt the brief urge to conjure popcorn, watching intently.

After a long standoff, Superman finally moved. With a frustrated noise, he grabbed a clipboard off the wall and signed at the bottom, turning back to Batman. The vigilante was already in the hallway, headed for the zeta tubes.

When they were out of sight, Hal hopped off the cot, glancing out the medbay doors. He pressed the button, then jabbed at it when the doors didn’t open.

“Hey! Supes!” Hal hit the button again, banging on the window. “Come back. You can spring me too, can’t--”

Down the hallway, he could hear Batman laughing.

_That fucker._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hii!! I absolutely love your writing!! And for a request anything with Bruce being a good father to damian and the rest of thr batkids.

A hand touched his arm, shaking him lightly.

He’d been awake since he’d first heard footsteps down the hall, still half-asleep as he’d tried to guess who it would be tonight.

The size of the hand on his shoulder gave it away this time.

“Damian,” Bruce rubbed his eyes, sitting up. “What is it?”

Damian snatched his hand back, eyes wide. He stepped back from the bed, glancing furtively at the door.

“I…”

Bruce pulled his legs over the side of the bed. He reached for the lamp, turning it on with a flick of his fingers. “Why don’t you--”

Damian flinched as the room brightened, squinting. He put up a hand, shielding his face; beneath it, his eyes were red and swollen.

After a moment of carefully not looking at each other, Bruce reached out and turned off the lamp. Damian’s shoulders slumped, visibly relaxing in the shadows.

“It was nothing,” he said, after a long pause. Bruce could hear the scratchy, watery sounds of crying in his voice. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Hey,” Bruce said, reaching out a hand. Damian twitched in place, glancing at the door again. “It’s not a bother. I was just--”

“Sleeping,” Damian finished for him. He was almost painfully curt. “I had been having a moment of...weakness. I realized, upon my intrusion, that it had passed.” He swallowed, turning to leave. “Apologies.”

Bruce eyed the door, a haphazard plan falling into place. He stood, crossing his arms and lowering his voice.

“Damian.”

The boy paused at the threshold, looking back.

“What?”

“I was just about to get up and find you.” Bruce fumbled for his wallet in the near-darkness, grabbing it off the nightstand. “I need back up on a quick mission. I have to pick up something time-sensitive across town.”

Damian’s head tilted. “At five AM?”

“I said time sensitive, didn’t I?” Bruce found one loafer, then the second, and slid his socked feet into them. Italian leather loafers and sweatpants. Somewhere in the Manor, Alfred was cringing. “Get dressed. I need you ready to go in five.”

A look of relief passed over Damian’s face. He nodded, bounding off toward the back stairs.

Bruce shook away the last of his sleepiness, heading for the kitchen.

He passed Jason in the hallway. The teenager had his cellphone out, staring gloomily at the screen. When he saw Bruce, he let out a snort.

“Why are you up?”

“Time sensitive mission,” Bruce said, yawning. He waved at the stairs. “Vital intelligence. I’m taking the minivan.”

There was a knowing look on Jason’s face. “Pick me up a Big Mac?”

“You want the meal?”

“Hell yeah.”

* * *

 “This is a _McDonalds_.” Damian said, pressed again the window. He turned to look at Bruce, clearly mystified. “Are you certain this is the correct location?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, steering them into the drive-through lane. “It is.”

“And your intelligence is _inside_?”

He rolled down the window, resisting the urge to smile and ruin the moment. “Kind of.”

The speaker in front of the menu buzzed:

 _“Hi, welcome to McDonalds, this is Jessica. How can I help you?_ ”

“Hey, Jessica,” Bruce leaned out the window, glancing at the menu. “Can I get a Big Mac meal with a coke, a Southern Style Chicken meal with coffee, and…”

He turned to Damian, raising his eyebrows. The boy shrank into his seat, looking desperately confused.

“...one twenty-piece chicken nugget meal with lemonade?” he finished, gratified when Damian relaxed slightly. He’d liked them the last time Dick brought home fast food, though it was impossible to tell what he’d eat these days.

 _“Sure. Your total is $17.31 at the first window_.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, rolling up the window. He shifted back into drive, guiding them towards the building. He glanced at Damian, who was frowning at the menu. “Chicken is still okay, right?”

“...yes.” Damian said, hesitating. “Is she delivering your intelligence in the food?”

“Nope.”

“It’s clearly in the receipt, then.” Damian said, still frowning as Bruce parked and rolled down the window. “Scrambled code in the survey link--”

“Hey, Jess,” Bruce smiled, handing his card out the window. Jess winked, swiping it with a flourish. “How’s business?”

“Booming,” she said, long-accustomed to the black AmEx--and the last name on it. She’d dropped it the first time. “You’re our third customer since midnight.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, accepting his card and the receipt back. “You have a good morning, Jess.”

“You too, Mr. Wayne.”

He closed the window, driving forward to the next window. Once in park, Damian unbuckled, craning his neck to look back at Jess’ window.

“That was clearly a coded conversation,” he said, grabbing for the receipt. “Well? Did she give it to you?”

There was a knock on the window. Bruce accepted the grease-stained bag, setting it in Damian’s lap as he grabbed their drinks. “There was no code.”

“No _code_?”

“Just food.” Bruce maneuvered them into one of the parking spaces at the back of the lot, shaded by a large sycamore tree. He began unwrapping his sandwich, handing Damian his nugget box. “See? Vital.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I used to do this a lot with Dick,” Bruce said, taking a bite. He chewed in silence for a moment, grinning when Damian finally grabbed a nugget. “And Jason. And Tim a few times…”

“This is a test,” Damian surmised, straightening in his seat. He grabbed another nugget. “I won’t let you down.”

Bruce took another bite of his sandwich, resisting another smile. “How are your nuggets?”

“They taste good,”

Damian said, chewing. “Clearly not poisoned.” He looked down. “I’ll have to try all of them, of course.”

“And the fries,” Bruce said, watching as the cowed look in Damian’s eyes faded, replaced with determination. A desire to be connected, included. “Don’t forget those.”

“And the fries,” Damian said, nodding. “And the lemonade. And a portion of your sandwich--”

Bruce smacked his hand away, grinning. “I didn’t see anything in the mission instructions about eating my food.”

“The woman at the register seemed too fraternal with you,” Damian said, stealing a french fry from his bag as Bruce started the car. “Obviously, you would be her first target.”

“Too late now.” Bruce said, around another mouthful of chicken. He turned the van onto the freeway ramp, hitting the gas.

“Poison is no joking matter, Father,” Damian said. He was grinning as he grabbed another chicken nugget. “Why do you think I trust Pennyworth?”  
  
“Uh huh,” Bruce said, reaching over and stealing a nugget. Damian shot him a dirty look. “What? You said they’re safe.”

“They’re _mine_.”

He felt his mouth twist into a grin, turning his head before Damian could see him laugh. After a moment, the boy sighed happily, relaxing against the seat.

“I suppose this mission was successful,” Damian said, after a comfortable silence.

Bruce glanced at the sunrise in the rearview mirror, nodding. He kept his face carefully blank.

“I suppose it was.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ur ‘5+1 times alfred carried bruce’ fic was so good and heartbreaking and ever since then i’ve wanted more of alfred’s pov <3 ur one of my favorite superbat/batman writers, i love the way u characterize everyone and ur tone in general!!!

AKA five things Bruce didn’t know Alfred taught him

* * *

**Stealth**

Six year-old Bruce Wayne ducks behind the hydrangeas, giggling loudly.

Alfred tugs the garden hose into a better position, keeping his thumb over the spout. He can hear the boy a few feet ahead of him and decides to wait, crouching between Martha’s rose bushes.

Sure enough, after thirty seconds, Bruce’s patience wanes. He pokes his head out of his hiding spot, looking around the empty garden.

“ _Alfred_!”

The hose is ice-cold in his hands. Alfred steps around the rose bushes, head ducked low. Bruce’s back is to him--neck craned, still looking for his playmate.

“ _Alfred,_ if you’re not going to play--”

He grins as his thumb slips from the spout, sending water shooting across the garden.

Bruce shrieks, spinning around. He puts his hands up to block the spray, but it’s too late. His clothing is drenched, sopping wet with ice water. The look on the boy’s face is priceless.

“ _You--you--”_

Alfred raises an eyebrow, and then the hand holding the hose. Bruce eyes it, pauses, and then makes a run for the garden shed.

 _Round two,_ the butler thinks, hefting the hose with a smile.

* * *

**Negotiation**

“If that hand goes back into the cookie jar,” Alfred says, knife stilling. “It’s getting cut off.”

Behind him, he can hear the rustle of Bruce’s fingers removing themselves. He resumes dicing onions, listening for the sound of the lid being replaced.

“Just one? _Please,_ Alfred?” At eight, those blue eyes are deadly to everyone but him. Still, he doesn’t risk turning around. “You won’t hear from me until dinner.”

“Dinner is in one hour,” Alfred raises his knife, gesturing. “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll clean my room.” Bruce says, with a look of distaste. “And...make my bed.”

“Right before you go to sleep?”

Alfred waits, watching Bruce’s expression morph into a pout. “...tomorrow morning.”

“And the next morning?”

“I just want _one_ cookie!” Bruce exclaims. “You’re making me do all this stuff for it. It’s not fair.”

“Exactly, Master Bruce.” Alfred grabs the next onion, chopping the ends off. “It’s not.”

Bruce considers this in silence. After a pause, he sets his hands on the counter, looking suspiciously like his father.

“One cookie a day,” he says, “And I’ll make my bed every morning.”

Alfred hides a smile, resuming his dicing.

“Deal.”

* * *

**Resiliency**

The car is frigid; his hands curl around the steering wheel, cold even with gloves, but Bruce doesn’t ask to turn the heat on. He is a smudge of pale skin and red eyes in the back seat, unspeaking and unmoving.

Alfred feels his own eyes burn, looking in the rearview mirror, and turns his attention to the funeral procession. Ahead, a sea of black coats and umbrellas file out towards the graveyard, braving the cold for one last chance to say goodbye.

He parks in the reserved spot, shutting the engine off. In the backseat, Bruce seems to wake up from his daze, blinking at the crowds. His expression is painfully young--scared, uncertain--as he realizes where they are.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, lip wobbling ever so slightly. “Alfred, I can’t.”

He ignores the urge to start the car and drive them away, ignores his outrage that a child so young has to do this. Alfred reaches for Bruce’s hand, grasping it in his.

“This will be hard,” he says, pausing as Bruce’s eyes fill over with tears again. “One of the hardest things you’ll ever do. But you can do it.” He smiles, knowing it’s a little watery. “I know you can.”

Bruce’s eyes close. He takes a breath, hand tightening in Alfred’s grasp. When he opens them again, his eyes are free of tears. They’re still red--still puffy and full of pain--but determined, now.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Alfred opens the door with a smile.

* * *

**Suturing**

“Why are we doing this again?”

Alfred ignores the obvious eye roll sent his way, threading his needle. “It’s good practice. You’ll never know when you’ll need to darn a sock until it’s too late."

“I don’t need to _darn socks,”_ the teenager says, grabbing the needle Alfred had set in front of him. “I’ll just buy new ones.”

“Thread it, sew a neat line, and we’ll be done.” Alfred says, turning over the piece of fabric in his hands. He holds it up to Bruce, revealing the row of perfect, even stitching. “See? Easy.”

The teen narrows his eyes, unwinding a spool of yellow thread. His first attempt at threading the needle goes poorly, and so does the second. On the third try, he finally ties it off. Alfred nods at the piece of fabric in front of him, waiting.

Bruce’s stitches are slow, and more than a little unsteady. He pricks himself more than a few times, but completes the row eventually. With a sigh, he holds it up to Alfred.

“Good,” the butler says. “But not good enough. Try again.”

 _“Alfred!_ ”

* * *

**Misdirection**

“Thanks for picking me up,” Bruce says, climbing into the backseat. Lights were flashing behind him, music pounding through the estate as people ran across the grounds. “The party was getting a little crazy. You have good timing.”

Alfred nods, eyeing the line of paparazzi huddled at the edge of the grounds--hoping to catch a glimpse of how the richest teenagers partied, no doubt. “Ready?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He shifts into drive, heading slowly towards the end of the drive. A gaggle of drunken teens run past the car, screaming. Alfred maneuvers the Rolls-Royce around them, hearing Bruce scoff in the back seat.

Together, they watch as one of the girls trips and falls, smashing her face into the concrete right in front of the paparazzi. Cameras flash as her skirt flies upward, legs and underwear bared to the world.

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, as the paparazzi go wild. His face is pressed ot the window. “That’s Carrie Jensen. We have to help her.”

The girl’s friends abandon her, running off toward the house. Alfred turns the wheel sharply, sliding the car between the cameras and the girl.

“Go talk to them,” he says, turning around to face Bruce. “I’ll take care of her.”

“What do you mean _talk_ to them?” Bruce asks, frantic. “She’s _hurt_.”

“Yes, and if they don’t find something more interesting in the next ten seconds,” Alfred says, opening his door, “her underwear will be the news tomorrow.”

Bruce grimaces, sliding out of the backseat. He waves at the cameras, clearly forcing a smile onto his face. “Hey! _Hey!_ ”

Alfred gathers the girl quickly, sliding an arm under her legs. He picks her up, setting her in the backseat, still concealed by the side of the car. In the distance, he can hear Bruce laughing at a reporter’s comment.

“--think _he’s_ a good choice for governor? Are you _kidding me_?” Bruce scoffs, playing up his disbelief for the cameras. He points at one. “My father had no patience for hateful rhetoric, and neither do I. You can quote me on that.”

Alfred clears his throat. After a brief wave, Bruce walks back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat. The paparazzi are still going wild over his comment, screaming for him to elaborate.

“Hospital?” Bruce asks, turning to glance at the girl in the backseat. The charm and bravado he’d shown in front of the camera drains from his face; the change is almost startling.

“Hospital.” Alfred agrees, hiding a smile.

* * *

**(+1) Renewal**

In the backseat, Bruce has one hand around the boy’s head, tucking him against his shoulder. Dick breathes softly, exhausted by the events of the past hour and a half. There are still tear tracks on his cheeks.

They ride home in silence. Bruce stares forward the entire time, stroking Dick’s hair softly with a rough hand.

“Good,” Alfred says, as they pull into the driveway of Wayne Manor. “Very good.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: hi! for fic prompts could you do a fic where bruce is high from pain meds or some sort of antitoxin and some of the justice league run into him and are endlessly amused

“Alright, just get your arm over my--yeah, like that.”

Clark shifted them forward one step, debating the repercussions of just picking up the vigilante bridal-style and making a run for it. “Okay, so, you need the antidote to whatever they hit you with--”

“Synthesized toxin,” Bruce mumbled, waving a hand at the empty Watchtower hallway. “Metabolized in four hours. I’ll be fine.” His head rolled, the cowl settling against Clark’s collarbone. Then, there was the sound of…

“Are you _sniffing_ me?” Clark asked, astonished. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“New cologne,” Bruce noted, muffled against his chest. He scrubbed a hand across his face, pausing when his fingers hit the cowl. “Lois doesn’t like it.”

Clark frowned, pausing their slow march to the med bay. “What do you mean, Lois doesn’t like it?”

“She doesn’t. Like. It.” the vigilante let out a breath, grabbing for the cowl. He pushed out of Clark’s hold, stumbling for the nearest wall. “Why is it so _hot_ in here. I can’t _breathe_ \--”

Clark watched as Bruce pulled the cowl off, revealing sweat soaked hair. The man’s eyes were a feverish blue, a flush high on each cheekbone. With a grunt, the vigilante threw the offending piece of rubber on the floor, sliding down the wall to join it a moment later.

“Someone’s going to find us,” Clark told Bruce, crossing his arms. He glanced either way, trying to calculate how poorly this was going to go if they didn’t move, soon. He received a grunt in reply. “Bruce?”

“Thinking,” the billionaire said, eyes pressed shut. “You should try it sometime.”

“ _Hey--_ ”

A door slammed open down the hall, cutting off whatever half-baked response he’d been about to give. Clark’s stomach dropped as a decent chunk of the Justice League exited the conference room, headed their way.

“Time to move,” he told Bruce, shaking his arm. The man squinted at him, clearly displeased at the contact. “Time to move _now--_ ”

“Ayy, Supes!”

Clark turned, saw Hal Jordan a few feet away, and immediately pointed a finger at Bruce. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He received an innocent look in response. Bruce raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Hey, Bats,” Hal said, strutting over to where Bruce was leaned against the wall. The Lantern was grinning. He glanced at Clark. “What the fuck’s wrong with him?”

Even Diana was watching them nervously, edging closer as Clark sent her a _what the fuck_ look. Over Barry’s shoulder, Arthur was actually smiling.

“Jordan,” Bruce said, calmly. His pupils were almost absurdly dilated now.

“Buddy, you are _fucked up_ ,” Hal said in amazement, crouching in front of the vigilante. He waved a hand in front of Bruce’s face, moving it back and forth slowly. “What does it feel like?”

“What does it feel like to...what?” Bruce asked slowly, frowning up at the Lantern. “To be...small and insignificant, almost completely unable to function, and a burden on others?”

Hal grinned, clearly amused. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce quirked his lips, “I was just about to ask you.”

Diana’s hand shot forward, grabbing the Lantern before he could retaliate. Arthur burst into laughter behind them as Clark stared, horrified, at his teammate. “ _Bruce_.”

“It’s the truth,” the vigilante said, crossing his arms. His head tipped back, eyes closing again as he rested against the wall. “That’s why Arthur’s laughing right now. He thinks I’ve forgotten who smashed the microwave last week and replaced it with one from _Target,_ ” Bruce said, sounding affronted. “I haven’t, by the way.”

To Clark’s right, Arthur had stopped laughing. Barry edged towards the zeta tubes, looking nervous.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Diana said, a hand still firmly grasping Hal’s collar. “Kal, could you take Bruce to the medbay?”

“Before I say something else?” Bruce asked, weakly, from his spot against the wall. Clark wasted no time, lifting him from the floor and turning down the hallway. “As if taking me away makes it any less untru--- _mphhh_!”

Clark kept his hand firmly over the man’s mouth, double-timing it to the end of the hallway. Bruce remained silent, surprisingly pliant in his arms. He had a feeling the man was going to regret this tomorrow.

At the doors to the medbay, Clark paused. Bruce was eyeing him like he already knew what he was going to ask. With a sigh, he removed his hand.

“She really doesn’t like the cologne?” he asked, defeated.

“Nope.”

Clark replaced his hand, shaking his head. With a sigh, he punched the medbay code into the keypad on the wall. “Too strong?”

“Mhphmm.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine how horrible it must be for Bruce to resemble his father? 

When he was born, it was the only thing anyone could say to Martha. 

”He looks  _just_ like Thomas!” “ _Just_ like his father!” “He’s going to be so  _handsome_!”

And the Waynes are thrilled. Bruce has his father’s features, his mother’s gentle touch. The famous dark hair of the Wayne line, the strong jaw, the intense stare, even at six. 

And then he’s eight. His parents are gone, nothing but formal portraits and photographs to remember his father by. Except–-

Except he’s eighteen, looking in the mirror, wishing he could tear it down, break it into a million pieces. Because suddenly Thomas Wayne is looking at him and he’s frozen, unable to breathe. 

After that, it’s something he hears daily. There are side by side photographs in the newspapers and magazines, marveling at the similarities. Watching him.  

There are pictures of Thomas laughing, an arm around Martha’s waist as they walk down a street in New York, her shoes dangling from his fingers. Photos of Thomas with a white coat on, his face drawn, leaning over a bed in Gotham General. 

At thirty, the likeness is eerie. He is broad shoulders and dark hair and a proud face that he turns away from cameras, biting his tongue until he draws blood. 

He is nothing like Thomas Wayne–-could never be like him, as much as he’d tried. But there is still a brief hesitation in Alfred’s eyes when he walks into a room-–the pause of someone seeing ghosts, again and again. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: a weird dream I had involving Bruce and Neo-Nazis.

“Clark.”

Bruce’s elbow jams into his side, forcing his gaze up from his matzo brei. Across the street, a man is crouched against the alley wall, his hand disappearing into his jacket pocket. 

“ _Gun_ ,” Bruce growls, eyes narrowed and Clark’s already across the street, slamming the man’s hand against the wall before he can draw the pistol. 

Bruce comes running behind him, his loafers sliding on the cobblestones. He’d abandoned his Reuben at the deli table, uneaten. 

“Let me  _go_!” the man says. Clark twists his wrist, the way he’s seen Bruce do a thousand times, forcing the man to drop the gun. The billionaire kicks it away without hesitation, shoulders tense. 

“What were you trying to do?” Clark asks, shoving him when he doesn’t answer. “ _Hey._ I can do way worse than a sprained wrist.”

“They deserve to die,” the man mumbles, ducking his head. His hand is shaking in Clark’s hold, but he suspects it isn’t from fear. “I was supposed to–supposed to kill them…”

Bruce follows his gaze to the deli across the street, his expression growing murderous. “You were going to shoot them,” he says, painfully monotone. 

“Are you…” the man ignores Clark, staring over his shoulder at the billionaire. “Are you Bruce Wayne?”

“No,” Bruce says, and punches the man across the jaw. 

He slumps in Clark’s arms, unconscious before he can hit the ground. Clark lets him go, crouching to make sure the man’s still breathing. 

Above him, Bruce’s face twists. “ _Clark_.”

“What?”

“His arm.” 

Clark swears when he spots the swastika tattoo, recoiling. Bruce doesn’t comment on the language, but his eyebrows rise at the intensity. They’re both frozen, staring at the man. “A neo-nazi. _”_

_“_ Are you surprised?”

Clark shakes his head, digging in the man’s pockets. “No ID….here’s a cell phone.” he squints, thumbing at the lock screen. “Any idea what the passcode could be?”

“1488,” Bruce says without hesitation. At Clark’s blank look, he sighs. “Just try it.”

Clark punches it in, hissing when the phone unlocks. “James Cramer. He’s logged into Facebook right now. From…Toledo?”

Bruce’s face is pinched, which means he’s thinking over something important. “You need to take him to the station. Or the FBI.” he tilts his head, reconsidering. “No, definitely the FBI.”

The neo-nazi moans against the brick, shifting slightly. Clark meets Bruce’s eyes briefly, then relents. He grabs the gun from the ground, careful to wrap a sleeve around the handle. 

The thought of using it makes him nauseous; he can’t imagine how Bruce is feeling right now. With a grimace, he picks the man up, hefting him over his shoulder. 

“I’ll order you fresh coffee,” Bruce says in farewell, ducking into the street. He’s across the street before Clark can realize he’s staring, stalling. As if on cue, the neo-nazi moans against his shoulder. 

“You’re going to jail,” Clark informs him. “for a verylong time.” 

He leaps into the air at the same time Bruce smiles at the older woman behind the counter, speaking in a language he can’t identify. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Batfamily + Tractor Supply Store

Picture this: you’re a tractor supply store on the outskirts of Gotham. You get very little traffic because most of the old farms out west have shut down. Things are quiet.

One evening, Bruce Wayne bursts through your door right before closing, breathless. Behind him are four black-haired boys, one black-haired girl, a redheaded girl, a blonde girl, an older man, and two dogs.

“I need a bag of cow feed.” Bruce Wayne slams his hands on the counter. Outside, you can hear distant moo-ing. “As soon as possible.”

The tiniest boy crosses his arms, staring at you expectantly. A sense of urgency fills the room.

“ _Please.”_ Wayne says.

The dogs are chewing on the hides sticking out of the bottom shelf behind him. You wince as something shatters two aisles over.

“ _Fuck_!”

Wayne doesn’t look away from you. “Language.” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “Clean it up, Jason.”

“It was  _Tim_!” an outraged voice says through the shelves.

“ _Hey_!”

“Cow feed,” Wayne says, regaining your attention with a blinding smile. “Please. And then we’ll be gone.”

“They have  _cattle prods_!” another voice says, further into the store. “Damian, come over here–”

Wayne doesn’t flinch at the sound of the cattle prod charging up. You pull out the sack of feed, placing it on the counter. For a moment, you forget how to ring up the purchase.

“That’ll be, uh, $70.”

Wayne slides over three hundred in cash, grabbing the bag. He hefts the bag over his shoulder with ease. He puts his fingers to his mouth, whistling once.

The children file out of the store immediately, followed by the dogs and the older man.

Outside, the mooing increases in volume. Happy mooing, you realize. Cows are sweeter than people think.

“Thanks,” Wayne says, and with a wink, he’s gone.

“You’re, uh,” you say to an empty store, twenty seconds too late. “…welcome?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hello person I have never talked to before, how about a request for Bruce wearing underwear with little bats on them, giving an interview after just being kidnapped???

“Mr. Wayne,” Jim asked, exasperated, “are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”

Wayne spared him an incredulous glance, brushing off yet another attempt by a nearby EMT to place a shock blanket around his shoulders. “ _Positive_. In fact, the only thing I want right now is to–would you  _stop_ , please?”

The EMT blushed, the foil blanket crumpling in her hands. Wayne grabbed her wrist, unembarrassed by his near-nudity, and gently nudged her back toward the ambulance. Instantly, the press gathered there pounced, shoving cameras and microphones in her face.

Jim shook his head, digging for the cigarettes in his jacket pocket. He pulled one out, searching in the other pocket for a lighter.

“Those’ll kill you, you know.” Wayne commented. He ignored a particularly bright camera flash, refusing to cross his arms or cover himself. Hell, maybe he liked showing off his perfectly-sculpted abs, and this was one big attempt at exhibitionism. Gotham had seen stranger.

“So will hypothermia.” Jim said, inhaling as he flicked the lighter.

“I’m not cold.” Wayne said, instantly. “Really.”

“I’m aware you feel that way, but–”

“No, you don’t understand,” Wayne cut in, gesturing back at the abandoned warehouse at the edge of the taped-off scene. “These– _kidnapping_ attempts–always start out the same way. Remove the clothes. Humiliate the victim. Make them feel powerless, so they’re less likely to fight back. Remove all sense of their personality so they’re more likely to comply–”

Jim tuned out his rant slightly, examining the small bats on Wayne’s boxers. Ignoring the fact that no underwear was meant to be worn that tight, the tiny decorations were almost…familiar.

“–well,  _guess what_ , kidnappers?” Wayne punctuated his point with a jab of his hand, gesturing at his underwear. “I don’t feel powerless. My personality is  _right here_ –”

A harried looking woman ducked under the crime tape, hurrying toward Wayne. The billionaire cut off as he was handed a cellphone, a look of relief passing over his face.

“Jason? Yeah, hi. No, I’m okay.” Wayne frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the cameras still gathered at the press line. “Live? Well, I’m not putting on one of those–yes, I understand that, but they’re that  _garish_ shade of yellow foil–”

Jim shook his head, realizing he wasn’t getting much coherent testimony out of Wayne for the rest of the night. The man seemed preternaturally unimpressed by the kidnapping attempts, but adrenaline and fear manifested themselves in strange ways, after all.

“You’re going to have to pick up Damian from soccer practice. Yeah, I know,” Wayne covered the receiver, mouthing  _one minute_  to Jim, complete with an upheld finger asking him to wait.

Jim raised an eyebrow.

“Look, the keys to the Porsche were in my dress pants, and if we’re being frank, those are probably in some Narrows dumpster at this point–”

Ramirez joined him, opening her mouth to say something. She frowned, spotting the bat-studded boxers, and wisely decided to stay silent. Jim puffed on his cigarette, watching the show.

“Alright. Alright. Please don’t kill him. Okay, bye.”

Wayne hung up, moving to slide the IPhone into his pants pocket. Ramirez did a poor job of covering up her snort, turning away as the billionaire stared at the phone, now flat on the ground.

“You have questions, I suppose?”

_Lots_. 

Jim pursed his lips, unable to tear his eyes from the boxers. “I think they can wait until tomorrow, Mr. Wayne. You can come down to the station and give your statement in something more…comfortable.”

Wayne frowned, following his gaze to his underwear. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“That makes one of us.” Ramirez muttered, looking away. Jim had a feeling she was rolling her eyes.

“Let me rephrase,” Jim said, holding up a placating hand. “Please put on some clothes, Mr. Wayne. For the good of the GCPD.”

Wayne sent him a  _look_ , crouching to pick up his phone. Behind him, the camera flashes increased exponentially, catching every angle of the tight black and yellow boxers. “I’m going home,” he said, straightening back up.

“The EMTs need to check you for shock,” Ramirez said, as Wayne turned toward the press line, “You need to see them before you go.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Wayne smiled, capricious, “The day you see me in one of those blankets, they won’t need to check.”

With that, he strode confidently toward the press line, ducking under the tape. Jim took another drag on his cigarette, waiting for Ramirez to say something.

“Did you see his…”

“We’re not talking about it.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I wanted Jason being forced to do yoga with Bruce.

“Not a word.”

Jason heads down the Cave’s stairs, undaunted by the warning. Bruce is upside down on one of the exercise mats, his legs pulled above his head.

For a long moment, the two of them stare at each other.

With a quiet breath, Bruce leans into the headstand, hands braced against the mat. He twists his legs, balancing them above his head as he pushes the weight of his entire body up onto his arms.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Jason replies, biting off the sarcastic comment he’d definitely been about to make. There’s another long, awkward pause as he resists the urge to say it anyway. “Since when do you do yoga?”

In the blue light of the monitors, Bruce seriously considers the question. His expression is almost laughable upside down.

“Bhutan,” he says, after a brief pause. “In the eighties.”

Jason shrugs, torn between trading another awkward jab or completing his trip to the garage. “Right.”

“It’s good for the back muscles,” Bruce says casually, his breathing perfectly even as he shifts into a pose even the most flexible of fifty year-old men wouldn’t attempt. “And the shoulders.”

Jason resists the urge to pull at his collar. The bullet wound above his left arm flares briefly, only half-healed in the months since he’d been stupid enough to get hit by something hollow-point. Nasty injury, nasty scar.

He has a feeling Bruce knows about it. Somehow.

“I heard your back starts to hurt when you get old.” he says, only a hint of heat in the jab. He extends a quiet olive branch and kicks off his shoes, eyeing the mat. “Would you say that’s accurate?”

Bruce quirks an eyebrow, rolling backwards smoothly into downward dog as he’s joined on the floor. Jason mimics him, feeling his calves stretch. The other man is staring at his legs.

“You’re wearing cargo pants.”

“You think I’m throwing on a pair of leggings?” Jason asks, outraged. He bows down into serpent, cringing internally as his pants creak with the motion. “Like I want everyone to see the exact outline of my balls.”

Bruce concedes the point with a nod, not mentioning the soft black sweatpants he has on. He pulls them up into cobra, holding the pose for an even ten counts. The pants look comfortable. Painfully so.

After a while, the repetitive motions start to blur. Jason loses track of time, slowly embracing the burning and stretching between his shoulder blades. Bruce’s breathing is a steady tempo, so sure and even, it’s soothing.

When Bruce finally releases them into child’s pose, he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His heart beats rhythmically in his chest, eager for the next round.

“Namaste,” Jason says as Bruce sits up. Just to be difficult, he adds a little hand clasp and bow in for good measure. “Is this the part where you rub oil into my temples and we meditate?”

Bruce snorts. Standing slowly, he stretches one last time, shoulders rolling fluidly. The movement almost looks lazy in the dim light from the monitors. What time is it again?

“Namaste,” he says, a slight quirk to his lips, and turns to leave.

Jason watches him pad up the Cave’s stairs, some part of him already missing the even cycle of Bruce’s breathing, right next to him. He realizes—belatedly—that it’s the longest they’ve spent in the same room without screaming at each other.

“Nama-fuckin’ ste.” he says to the empty Cave, and finally heads for the garage.


End file.
